


Be Your Love

by ABookAndACoffee



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Femslash, NSFW, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 05:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABookAndACoffee/pseuds/ABookAndACoffee
Summary: Mor and Nesta need to get ready for an evening out, but Nesta has other ideas."Nesta’s fingers thread through Mor’s, gripping them and pulling her down onto the couch. She leans over and kissed her, a soft press of her lips against her wife’s that had them both closing their eyes to concentrate on that point of contact. Their foreheads connect briefly, Mor holding herself back from pressing her tongue against the heat of Nesta’s. It takes so little for her to have this effect, to soothe and negate any stress she may have walked into their house with.Nesta rests her hand on Mor’s neck, feeling the pulse and heat beneath the skin, remarking the way that the blood begins pounding just a bit faster...Perfect. Nesta grins, knowing she will get what she wants, what she has been sitting there imagining."





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was started for ACOTAR ship week (femslash), but I finished it late. The prompt was "inappropriate timing".

Mor walks into the house in a flurry of movement. One would think that peacetime means less responsibility, or at the very least, less requests from the various nobles in the Night Court that she would have to attend to. But no – they are ever the opportunists, and the constant demands of her position continue to keep her busy. 

Throwing down the velvet cape she has favored lately, Mor sighs. She needs to change into a different dress, to find Nesta, and then they are off to yet another diplomatic dinner, this time at more “neutral” territory in Velaris. Silently giving thanks that she won’t have to travel to the Hewn City, she begins going through a mental inventory of what she needs to discuss, who she needs to speak to. Does she need to bring any documents? No. Running her hands over her dress to smooth the black silk, she heads to the stairs to change for dinner. 

In the years since war with Hybern ended Mor and Nesta grew closer. Then one evening Nesta cornered her after a dinner, pressing her fingers into Mor’s bare waist, whispering in her ear, brushing her lips against her cheek. Mor had a difficult time thinking of anything else after that. The curve of Nesta’s back and the arch of her eyebrow became more pronounced in Mor’s eyes, the slight blush and smirk of her lips burned in her memory as she thought about other places she’d like the feel them pressed against her. 

The following weeks and months were a blur. The fire that Nesta contained was enough to keep her sustained, to fuel them both, and they rarely missed a chance to be alone together. Neither of them were timid, but there was something new about Nesta, something unpredictable about this woman who had spent her life only revealing small, inconsequential parts of herself to others. Mor discovered a different Nesta when they were alone, one who was full of passionate joy. She had always suspected that the newly Made woman hid her most fundamental parts, and in their time together she coaxed it out of Nesta, helped her find comfort in being open, just for a little while, just around her. 

Mor had decided that she would do everything she could to help Nesta nurture this part of herself. 

And from Nesta’s end, a fierce protectiveness grew, one that she hadn’t experienced for anyone outside of Elain. Learning about Mor had been a stunning lesson in survival, and every day the smile that Mor bore for her surprised her all over again. Nesta was continually taken aback by the fact that this beautiful and compassionate woman would find something worthy in her, despite her brusque exterior. 

The first time that Mor went to the Court of Nightmares and Nesta went with her, it was all she could do to hold back the wrath of her lover. Nesta had come in spitting, ready to end the existence of anyone who dared look at Mor the wrong way. Of course the Morrigan had long ago established her dominance here, but that didn’t stop Nesta from recognizing the slight shake in her voice, from noticing the silence she wrapped herself in afterward. And from taking care of her in the only way she knew how. 

The next time they went to the Court of Nightmares, Nesta had threaded her fingers through Morrigan’s, a silent challenge and a united front against anyone who might doubt that there was yet another reason to fear making a wrong move against Mor. 

When they had married, they had both silently made a vow to serve the other. 

Now, decades later, they continue to find new and interesting ways to fulfill that vow. 

“Mor?” Nesta’s voice comes from the sitting room off the foyer, keeping her from going up the stairs. The word has a lazy quality to it, as if Nesta has just woken. 

Peering around the corner of the doorway, Mor looks into the room to see Nesta sitting across the brocaded couch wearing a simple grey muslin dress. Against the color, Nesta’s hair has taken on a fiery quality, and Mor drinks in sight. She strolls into the room and leans down to brush her lips on Nesta’s cheek. 

“Nesta, I thought you’d be getting ready,” Mor says. 

“Oh, I am, in just a moment. I was waiting for you.” 

“What for?” Mor asks. 

Nesta’s fingers thread through Mor’s, gripping them and pulling her down onto the couch. She leans over and kissed her, a soft press of her lips against her wife’s that had them both closing their eyes to concentrate on that point of contact. Their foreheads connect briefly, Mor holding herself back from pressing her tongue against the heat of Nesta’s. It takes so little for her to have this effect, to soothe and negate any stress she may have walked into their house with. 

Nesta rests her hand on Mor’s neck, feeling the pulse and heat beneath the skin, remarking the way that the blood begins pounding just a bit faster... _Perfect_. Nesta grins, knowing she will get what she wants, what she has been sitting there imagining. 

When she pulls away Mor starts to speak, but Nesta places her thumb over her lips, halting her before she begins. She shakes her head firmly. “No.” 

A quizzical look in Mor’s face quickly becomes understanding as she recognizes the look in her eyes, one that means Nesta is going to have her way, and soon. 

“Tell me later. Right now, I just want this.” She leans forward, pushing her weight towards Mor so that she has to fall back slightly, resting on her elbows. On her hands and knees, Nesta prowls above Mor, taking in her curves hugged and accentuated by smooth black silk. 

“Nesta, we don’t have time,” she begins to say, but the words are half-hearted, less. The lack of force behind them is immediately evident, and they would both laugh at the transparency of her objection if it weren’t for the lust that is already apparent in both of their expressions, Nesta’s pupils blown wide as if she has been sitting there, waiting for this moment. 

Nesta refuses to answer, instead kissing her gently, holding Mor’s chin in her hand. She closes her eyes against the sensation, wanting to pull Nesta’s bottom lip between her teeth, to push until there is no hope of them leaving the house that evening. 

“Nesta,” Mor moans, the protest in her voice having nothing to do with what she wants. It is a plea, but she isn’t sure what she needs. She thinks it might be release from what Nesta demands of her, but she knows that she wants to give it willingly. What she wants is to bury herself in the soft, delicate skin of Nesta’s thighs, to explore every inch of skin as if she has never seen it before. To be laid bare and obliterated to the point that nothing that came before or comes after will have an significance in comparison. 

Nesta reaches down, pulling the fabric of her dress up just enough to allow her to pull her knee up, wrapping Mor’s leg around her own waist. Her fingers ghost up until she grasps the flesh of Mor’s rear, running the tip of her nose along Mor’s collarbone, teasing and refusing the press of her lips until she is begged for it. 

“Nesta, love,” Mor moans, her head falling back to allow Nesta better access to the spots on her neck that she loves best, trying to keep herself at least somewhat upright though leaning back on her elbows. “We’re going to be late. Rhys will not be pleased…” Her protests fall away to mere murmurs as Nesta brings her tongue along Mor’s neck, gently nipping at the spot where it meets her shoulder. She tries to keep an involuntary shudder at bay, but she is already gone, already lost to whatever plans Nesta has for her. 

Nesta adjusts her weight fully over Mor until she is pressed onto her back. She continues tracing Mor’s skin, hands exploring the various ties and buttons and clasps that hold the black silk on her wife’s body. It is one she knows well, and it only takes a few moments for Nesta to be able to coax Mor’s hips up, pushing the fabric over her thighs, then over her head until it is thrown in a pile on the floor. 

Feeling Mor’s delicate skin beneath her fingertips is enough to make Nesta nearly forget everything else. Every slight, every annoyance, every struggle that has made up her life to this point is reduced to insignificance when the heat and softness of her wife’s skin is there, waiting to be savored. 

Mor has been reduced to a whimper beneath Nesta more times than she can count, and she never thought she’d enjoy giving up control quite so much. Nesta’s will is not to be taken lightly; Morrigan knew that about her the moment they met, watched how she had dealt with Feyre and Cassian and the mortal queens. So much has passed since then, and Nesta never fails to amaze her. To push, and take, and Mor gives willingly, knowing that they will both go to the ends of world to protect one another. 

So when Nesta decided to give… it is all the more satisfying. 

Nesta stands. She turns around and waits for Mor to understand her meaning. Obliging, Mor reaches up and tugs on the laces at the back of her grey dress, loosening them just enough. Nesta turns again and slides the dress off her shoulders, revealing the intricate lavender lingerie that Mor never would have guessed at, based on the plainness of her dress. The delicate lace does little to hide Nesta’s dark nipples pressing against the fabric, the soft flesh of her hips, and Mor reaches up to grab at her, pulling her back down to the couch. 

“So eager, Mor,” Nesta chides. 

Lips returning to Mor’s throat, Nesta reaches down to push aside the fabric of her panties, to plunge her fingers easily into the slickness she knows is already there. Mor cries out, wanting to come but needing it to be drawn out, the way she knows Nesta is capable of. As if recognizing her need to slow down, Nesta withdraws her fingers. 

She pulls away and undresses Mor, sliding bits of lace across her skin, and Mor’s hands touch what they can as Nesta moves, hands running over shoulders, feeling the dip of her waist, knuckles brushing against her cheek. 

Leaning back over her, Nesta places one of her thighs between Mor’s legs and presses slightly, forcing Mor to lift her hips if she wants to increase the pressure. When she feels the slick on her thigh, Nesta lets out of a satisfied hum. “You were saying, Morrigan?” 

Mor shakes her head and bites Nesta’s lip, punishment for teasing her. Her hands wander up Nesta’s side, grasping her breasts through the thin lace of her lingerie, pinching and teasing at her nipples. She pushes the fabric out of the way, wanting to hold Nesta’s breast in her mouth. Mor, pulls Nesta in tighter with the leg wrapped around her waist as she ducks her head down to tongue a nipple. She clutches at her body, wanting to feel the weight and solidity of the woman above her, to feel and taste and smell nothing but Nesta. 

Nesta places a small kiss on Mor’s cheek before pulling herself away. She is answered with a whimper of protest, but Nesta shifts down. Moving until she is poised in between Mor’s spread thighs, Nesta places her hands underneath her hips and tilts them up, providing her better access to her cunt. She is pleased to find the pink flesh glistening and Mor presses her head back into a cushion before looking back at Nesta. There is a glint in Mor’s eye, watching her wife looking at her folds like this. 

Mor is exposed and raw and the quick rise and fall of her chest is further evidence that she is completely at the mercy of the woman holding her hips between her palms. And she has never felt safer. 

Nesta drags a wet finger along the inside of Mor’s thigh, the slick of her wife leaving a trail that she follows with her tongue, mingling with the taste of sweat that has begun to coat her body. A small press of her teeth into the delicate, sensitive skin near the apex of Mor’s thighs has her bucking up her hips, moaning _Nesta, Nesta, Nesta,_ and she obliges, the sounds coming from Mor’s throat going straight to her core, stoking the fire that she had begun herself while waiting for her to arrive. 

Nesta buries her tongue between Mor’s thighs, a sensation that, though familiar, never fails to completely undo either of them. She begins with slow, steady strokes, running her tongue the length of her folds, tasting. The heady musk takes over both their senses, blocking out any other concern or thought that may have disturbed them. 

“Please, Nesta,” she manages to get out before succumbing. Her body is a contradiction of tension and ease, the balance maintained by Nesta’s careful ministrations. None of the strain from of her responsibilities remains in her body; everything that she feels now is molded by Nesta, by the care they give each other. 

Breath catching in Mor’s throat, she throws one hand to the back of the couch to anchor herself while the other rests on Nesta’s head to feel the bobbing movement she makes as her soft, warm tongue explores. They don’t have time – it was never Nesta’s intention to fully interrupt their plans, merely postpone them – and so she thrusts a finger inside Mor’s cunt, one, then another, then another, curling them to find the spot she knows will bring her to a quick edge. 

A whine escapes Mor, her hips shifting slightly, and she tries to keep herself from gripping her thighs around Nesta’s brown hair. Sensing her need, Nesta pulls Mor’s thighs in closer, letting her clasp them as much as she needs. The feel of Nesta’s long waves against her thighs, falling over her stomach and hips, is the last bit she needs, the final piece. Her breasts ache, her back arches, and her thighs tense as she comes, crying Nesta’s name over and over. 

Nesta kisses a path up her stomach, coming to rest with her head on Mor’s shaking chest. She leans her head down to kiss Nesta’s forehead, damp hair smoothed away. 

A contented sound and a sigh escapes Mor. She wonders what she possibly could have been worried about, how the stress of the day could have overtaken her when she had this to come home to every evening. 

Nesta looks up at Mor, adoration in her eyes. By now there is little unknown, but her heart feels like it lives in her throat. 

“Your turn, Nesta. But…” Mor looks at where they are lying on the couch, at the furniture in the room. “I want to taste you. And I want you over me.” A grin from Nesta is all it takes for Mor to winnow them to the bedroom. They find themselves standing next to their bed and Nesta places her hands on Mor’s shoulders, gently pushing her, waiting for her to find a comfortable spot on her back before making her own move. 

Nesta removes her underclothes, Mor watching impatiently. She crawls onto the bed and straddles Mor until she can reach the headboard, her cunt over Mor’s mouth. She lowers herself down slowly until Mor grabs her hips, greedily pulling her folds closer to her mouth. She breathes in deeply once, the scent of her wife intoxicating and familiar and exotic all at once. Her tongue swipes through her once, a test, and when Nesta gently bucks her hips, Mor begins to set a rhythm with her tongue on Nesta’s clit that has her grasping the headboard to keep from falling. 

Mor’s deep red nails dig into the soft flesh of Nesta’s thighs as she runs her tongue over the soft, sensitive skin, keeping her wife spread above her, continuing a maddening rhythm that causes them both to lose all sense of control. And gladly, if it is with one another. She softly bites the skin of Nesta’s inner thigh and she wails, her head hanging limply, watching Mor just there, underneath her spread legs. Her hair falls in her face and she leaves it there. 

When Nesta comes, she is nearly pressing herself into Mor’s mouth, trying to hold herself up but knowing that Mor wouldn’t complain. She comes again and again, Mor burying her tongue deep inside to taste her orgasm. 

Nesta’s thighs ache from holding herself over Mor’s mouth, from the tension and release of coming. Falling to her side, she finds the same spot in her arms, a position they always find themselves in. 

“Shall we go now?” Nesta asks. 

Mor groans. “Are you joking? After that? I can barely stand.” Fingers run absently along Nesta’s arm. A calm quiet descends over the room. And when they finally leave the room, Mor is much better prepared to deal with whatever will come next. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written this pairing (or femslash actually), so I'd like to know what you think! Also come find me on [tumblr](http://abookandacoffee.tumblr.com/).


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